


Open Wounds

by prydon



Category: Luther (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 20:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17311403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prydon/pseuds/prydon
Summary: Some days it seems like John Luther loses every person he dares to care about. He's determined not to lose Mark North too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set between s4 and s5, and was written before s5, so nothing that happened in s5 is considered/spoiled. All I changed after watching s5 is that I mention Mark's vegetarianism haha.  
> Also, I've read the prequel book Luther: The Calling by Neil Cross so there will be references to things that were canonized in that book, for instance how Mark and John each met Zoe, Mark being a smoker, etc.

He remembered something she’d said to him once, during one of their angry phone calls, probably only a few weeks before she died.

_“I love him because he understands me, John! No…because he’s like me. We like the same food, the same television programs; we have the same hobbies, the same opinions…We never fight, unless it’s about you. It’s easy, being with him.”_

He’d scoffed at her. What was the point of being with someone who was exactly the same as you? Wasn’t that boring?

When he met Mark North, he found himself credulous of the idea that they were even that similar in the first place. Zoe was quiet, so gentle so much of the time, but she also had a hardness inside of her. A fire. He couldn’t see any of that fire in Mark, just a normal man with a normal life who felt threatened enough by his girlfriend’s ex-husband to land a weak punch on him, but not enough to do anything else. He was no one.

At least, that was what John had thought.

He’d seen that fire later, though, after Zoe died. He’d seen it in Mark’s insistence on helping them take down Ian, even at risk to his own life. He’d heard it in his voice when Mark had bellowed at Alice, _“Do it, do it, do it.”_

In a way, just like Zoe had been, Mark was stronger than John. He’d moved house, quit his job, lived alone off his own wares and buried himself in books and his grief, yes- but he never once felt guilty about what he’d done, not like John had about Henry Madsen. It wasn’t regret over insisting on Ian’s death that consumed him, it was his love for Zoe. And Mark North had always loved too much.

He showed John the ring one day, during their bi-weekly game of chess. It was a beautiful thing, but simple.

“I thought you might be angry,” he admitted as John examined it.

“Why would I be angry?”

“I was going to propose to her. She…she was still married to you.”

John turned the ring over in his hands. “How long were you two together before you bought this?”

Mark paused. “…Half a year. No, less than that. Maybe five months.”

“You were going to propose to her after five months?”

He looked sheepish. “I loved her. I knew I wanted to be with her.”

And John could tell he was telling the truth, and he couldn’t feel angry at all. It calmed him, even, to know that Zoe had had someone who loved her so much. Now that she was gone, none of that mattered. There was no competition to be had between him and Mark, just a quiet sort of understanding, a fondness that grew in degree with every game of chess.

He could see them now, too, the similarities between her and Mark. They kept catching him off guard. Mark would order the same coffee as she did, read the same books, follow the same morning routine. When John questioned him about this, he’d smile and say that Zoe had been surprised too- that it really was just a coincidence. They had the same tastes. They cared about the same things. That was why they’d fallen in love.

One night after John had gone back to work and had just been through a particularly harrowing case, Mark showed up on his doorstep with a bottle of wine and invited himself in.

“I thought you shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he said, and it hit John like a blow to the stomach, because it was exactly what she would have done, and exactly what she would’ve said, and for a moment he couldn’t see Mark North- he could only see her.

He hadn’t protested, and the two of them had spent the rest of the night on the sofa, mostly silent as they drank the entire bottle and watched whatever was playing on the television. Once it was late enough, Mark fell asleep slumped against John’s side, his head on his shoulder. He was a small-statured person, like her. His weight against John felt so slight, like hers had.

John let him stay there, even though he was tired and sitting uncomfortably and wanted nothing more than to change his clothes and go to sleep in his own bed, because it felt wrong to move. In the daytime Mark always looked so exhausted, like even a thousand years of sleep wouldn’t be enough to bring him rest. John didn’t dare wake him. He just stayed on the sofa until he fell asleep too, and they spent the night like that, drunk with wine and drunk with grief and each grateful for the other’s company.

 

“You’re in love with him.”

John turned from where he’d been staring out over the river to raise an eyebrow at Alice.

She crossed her arms. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

“Spying again, Alice? That’s not very friendly of you.”

“Why him?”

John sighed. “I’m not in love with him. He’s my mate.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him. Per the observations of others who claim to be in love that I’ve made, it looks much the same.”

“You want the truth?”

“Unequivocally.”

“He reminds me of her. I’m not in love with him, I’m still in love with her.” He shook his head. “I’ll always be in love with her. We both will be; that’s why we’re mates.”

“Is he in love with you?” Alice asked.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I don’t actually care whether he is or he isn’t. I care whether you think he is.”

“No, he’s not,” John said. “I don’t know that he even likes me. It’s not about us liking each other; being around each other just makes it…easier.”

Alice nodded. “I believe you. Or at least, I believe that that is what you believe. Whether it’s true or not…that’s a different matter.”

She smiled at him and walked away then, leaving him as lost as he always was after speaking with her.

 

_Are you in love with him?_

Once the question had been asked, however- a question he’d never thought to consider before- he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d been in love with Zoe for twenty years. The idea of loving someone else felt so foreign, even more so the idea of loving the man he’d once so hated, had felt disgusted by when he pictured him in bed with Zoe. The idea of loving a man at all, in fact. It was never something he’d been completely averse to the idea of, but not something he’d ever considered either. He’d never been with a man before, nor thought about being with one.

If he felt anything for Mark North now, it had to just be a projection of his feelings for Zoe. What else could it be?

They kept meeting, kept playing chess, kept checking up on each other to make sure the other was still sleeping and eating and breathing. When Mark finally decided to go back to work at another firm, they had a quiet dinner out in celebration. After Justin died, Mark spent an entire night in the pub with John. He didn’t say anything, he was just there.

Everything in John’s life felt like it was always in motion. So many gains, and even more losses, and never a still moment. Too many had died. Too many had left him. There had been so much pain and grief and change.

Over the past eight years, it felt like there had been only one constant in his life, and that was Mark North.

_Eight years._

On the anniversary of Zoe’s death, they both met at her gravestone. _Zoe Luther_ , it read. How strange to think that had she died only a year later, it might have read _Zoe North._ John used to feel a kind of perverse gratitude at his name being immortalized as part of hers forever, but now he thought he wouldn’t have minded if she had died as Zoe North, or if somehow both their names could be on that stone. They had both loved her, and she had loved both of them, after all. What difference did it make?

“It doesn’t feel like eight years,” Mark breathed. “Feels like it was only yesterday, and at the same time…a millennium ago.”

They’d changed, since then. There was grey in John’s hair and scruff now. There was none to be found in Mark’s, despite him being more than ten years John’s senior, but he’d still changed. He was slightly thinner, perhaps a result of living primarily off of food he grew himself, and had gotten an undercut, both of which combined with the long black coat he was currently wearing to create a much more severe figure than the man John had first met, the man with the messy hair and soft blue jumpers that matched his eyes.

They’d both gotten harder, more severe, in appearance and in mind. It was difficult not to, in a world like this. Being a police officer wasn’t easy, but being a lawyer wasn’t either. John knew many of Mark’s cases wore on him. Everything wore on Mark.

No, that was the thing. It wasn’t that Mark was hard: it was because he wasn’t hard that he’d been hurt so badly by everything that happened to him. For some people, all cuts were deep. All wounds stayed wet and never healed over. John had spent the last eight years accumulating scar tissue, but Mark hadn’t been even afforded that. He’d just been accumulating more and more open wounds. Maybe when he was younger John might have been exasperated by that, seen it as a weakness, but he didn’t now. It was something he’d come to admire about Mark, even: how badly he could be hurt. John had seen too many colleagues in the force grow apathetic with age. Mark North was incapable of apathy, no matter how much he might have wished he was.

John was struck with the sudden urge to put his arm around the man, but in the end decided not to. Mark was gentle, perhaps- easily hurt, certainly- but he was also strong. One of the bravest people John had ever met, if only quietly so. He could look after himself.

 

One day, John found himself attending one of Mark’s sessions in court. It was related to a case of his, so he found it only right to attend, but a part of him had also been afraid of going. He’d purposefully avoided the courts since Zoe died. They always just reminded him of her, of watching her work, watching her perform- because that was what being a lawyer was; it was a performance of intelligence and skill and to some extent manipulation, and Zoe had been a master of it.

At the same time, he was excited to watch the trial. He’d known Mark for so long, and yet he’d never seen him work. It was odd, seeing him in a suit, with his hair perfectly styled and reading glasses in place so he could easily study his notes. He could tell that the people on Mark’s side had complete and total faith in him, and John couldn’t blame them.. He exuded such an air of professionalism and intelligence in the courtroom, one which he always had the capability for but which was usually hidden from view in the day-to-day, when he was holed up in his little flat or in pubs dressed in his scarves and tweed.

In a way, it was a dangerous game. The exchange between him and Alice all those years ago was still ringing in John’s ears. _He reminds me of her. I’m not in love with him, I’m still in love with her._ And now here he was, watching Mark perform the very same job his wife once had. Would it make it even easier for him to confuse the two in his mind? To think of Mark less as a friend and more as an extension of the woman he’d loved? He shook the thought from his mind and made himself focus on the trial at hand. He was here as a police officer. He was here as a friend. He wanted to be here.

Just as Zoe had been, Mark was fascinating to watch. He danced with the defendant, being gentle but firm with the evidence he presented. When he spoke to witnesses he was kind and kept them calm. It was clear that he wasn’t trying to force a certain answer out of them: he just wanted the truth. He was confident he could win this case on the truth alone.

Every time he sat back down at his desk, he’d nod slightly at his lead witness. A reassuring gesture. A promise that _We are going to get through this, and I am going to win, and the man who hurt you will never be able to hurt you again._

There were tears in Mark’s eyes for the entirety of his closing argument, making his light blue irises shimmer. John couldn’t tell if they were genuine or there as a tactic to gain empathy from the jury, and he got the feeling that the answer was _both_. For Mark, his gentleness was a weapon, something that could be used to fight back against those who meant harm.

As he watched Mark gave his final statements, John realized he was smiling. There was something warm in his chest now that he had always felt while watching Zoe work: a pride to know this lawyer who was standing in front of him, and a respect and love for what they were capable of.

And then he realized something that scared him half to death, and it was that he wasn’t really feeling this way because of Zoe at all. In fact, despite his expectations he’d barely thought about her throughout the entire session.

Zoe had always been so steadfast when she stood in front of the court. Perhaps it was because she knew that as a woman any sign of emotion she allowed herself to give could be taken as a weakness, an excuse to write her off as hysterical, or perhaps it was simply her choice of how to operate, but Zoe had never spoken so gently. She’d been cold and hard and given nothing but the facts, and she usually won, because the facts were good. John had loved her for that.

But for once, in this court, Mark hadn’t reminded him of Zoe at all. They didn’t have anywhere close to the same _modus operandi_ as lawyers. Mark appealed more to emotions, challenging the jury to feel sympathy for the victim he was fighting for, to trust them both. He put witnesses at ease to get good explanations out of them, instead of wrong-footing them to seek out the whole truth as Zoe had. Both methods had their own merit, and both had potential to work, but the point was that they were _different_.

The point was that in that courtroom, for those four hours, the person John was in love with was Mark North, not Zoe Luther. He hadn’t been thinking of Zoe Luther at all.


	2. Chapter 2

That evening the jury deliberated on Mark’s case, and came back with verdict of guilty on all counts for Donny Graves. It was an extremely momentous occasion: even Mark himself hadn’t dared to inspire too much hope that such a thing was possible on a case of its nature. He’d expected a ruling of thirty years with a possibility of parole at the most, but if the jury had ruled guilty on all counts, there was no way the man wouldn’t be put away for life.

John watched from a distance as Mark hugged the woman who’d been his main witness, the woman who Graves had abused for years and nearly murdered. They were both crying.

“Thank you,” she told him, wiping her eyes.

He smiled at her. “It was your strength that got us through this. You’re safe now.”

He left her to join her family and walked over to John. “John. Thank you for being here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. That’s quite some win, Mark.”

He looked bashful. “On days like these, it makes me think that perhaps there is justice in the world after all.”

He gazed at the woman as she hugged her parents, his eyes still sparkling. He looked happier than John had seen him in years. Yes, both of their jobs were difficult, but every now and then they were reminded of why they did them- of the people they could help, they could save- and it all felt worth it again. Or necessary, rather.

“You and me at the Mayflower, drinks to celebrate. I’ll pay. How about it?” John asked.

Mark smiled at him. “I don’t know. I was actually thinking a night in might be nice.”

“Really, after a win like this you want to just sit at home alone and watch telly?”

“Not alone. Or at least, I was hoping to not be alone. Your place?”

John laughed. “Of course. I must have a bottle of champagne hidden somewhere…”

 

He did, as it turned out, and they drank it over takeout while discussing the trial. John couldn’t take his eyes off Mark as he talked. He was so passionate about his work that John couldn’t fathom how he’d ever managed to leave it. It was fascinating to hear him go into the inner workings of the UK justice system, aspects John had never even considered before despite being very familiar with it himself.

They’d both underestimated their appetites after such a long day, and John had nothing in the fridge, so Mark had offered to go pick up more food. John had agreed on the condition that Mark would use his money to pay for it.

When the door slammed shut behind the man, John suddenly found the flat all too quiet and empty. For the first time that day, he was properly alone with his thoughts. His eyes drifted to rest on the pictures on his side table. There was one of him and Zoe arm-in-arm, which he often caught Mark looking at while he was over. There was another of his police unit, a recent enough image that Ian wasn’t there, but taken long enough ago that Justin was. The sergeant looked so young.

He couldn’t see it from here, but he knew there was another picture there, too: a photo of Alice Morgan lying face down on the table, the one he’d been given by DCI Bloom when informed of her death.

So many dead friends on that side table, the only connection between them being that they’d been loved by John Luther.

Was that just what happened to the people John loved? Were they eternally damned to being shot or drowned? Killed for the crime of their loyalty, their connection to him? It felt like everyone he’d ever loved had been stained by his presence. Even those who’d survived, like Mary or Jenny, hadn’t escaped unscathed- they’d still been forced to experience things they never should have experienced. That they almost certainly wouldn’t have, if not for him.

He’d thought of Mark as his constant. A quiet but steadfast presence in his life, one he could turn to when everyone and everything else seemed lost. One he’d never even really worried about, because his existence, his life seemed like such a given: it was as though in John’s mind the world might end and Mark North would still be there, waiting in the café with a chess board and a tired smile, asking if John was doing all right. He’d never even considered that he could lose Mark.

But of course he could.

That was why he was terrified of what he’d felt in that courtroom.

He wasn’t afraid of loving his ex-wife’s lover, he wasn’t afraid of loving a man- he was afraid of loving anyone. He couldn’t shake the feeling that anyone who got too close to him would wind up dead, and Mark had gotten so close. Unlike Zoe, who he’d fallen in love with practically the day he’d met her, Mark had walked in slowly and quietly through the back door of his chest, and John hadn’t even realized how deep he’d gotten until so many years had passed and it was too late to push him back out.

Mark came back wielding two new takeout boxes ten minutes later, all smiles. “There you go,” he said, handing John his.

“Thanks.”

Mark sat down on the sofa beside him, opening his own box and starting to eat, before pausing to frown at John. “Don’t tell me I ordered the wrong one again.”

John was staring at his food without touching it. He shook his head vaguely, then looked up to meet Mark’s eyes. “That woman…if a different prosecutor had been on that trial, the man who hurt her might very well have walked free.”

Mark looked surprised, then snorted. “Flatterer.”

“I’m serious. There aren’t many who could’ve gotten that verdict from the jury. The work you do…it’s important,” John said.

Mark shrugged. “He deserves to be locked up. Someone had to help. It’s my job.”

“And you’re very good at it.”

“I like to think so.”

John leaned back on the sofa, staring at the place where the wall met the ceiling on the other side of the room. Something was growing there; likely mildew. “I think you should go.”

“What?”

“I think you should go,” John repeated in a steady tone. “Go back to your flat.”

Mark looked bemused, but nodded. “If you like. This is your place, after all. I understand if you want it to yourself.” He closed his takeout box and put it back in the plastic bag before standing up and shooting John a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Same place and time as always.”

His smile felt like a knife going into John’s chest. “I won’t be there.”

“Oh. Work?”

John shook his head. “I don’t want to see you.”

Mark looked taken aback, then crossed his arm and cocked an eyebrow. “What’s going on, John? Is this something to do with a case?”

“No. I just don’t want to see you.” John couldn’t meet his eyes. He knew if he did he might cave in, might feel too guilty about what he was saying and be unable to continue.

He couldn’t stop. However he felt about Mark was irrelevant; the fact of the matter was this: the world needed Mark North alive. He was a good man, and he helped people, and that was more important than what he meant to John personally, much more important than whatever modicum of calm and stability his presence brought to John’s life.

There were other people in the world who needed him. It’d be selfish, bordering on immoral, for John to let him stick around, let him stay here and be killed just like everyone else who was close to him, just because John loved him and felt better when he was around.

It didn’t feel worth it, however, when he chanced a glance up and saw the hurt and confusion on the man’s face.

“What are you on about?” Mark asked. “Y-you just said…” He shook his head. “I know something else is going on here, John. Whatever it is, if there’s some bloody mad killer out there threatening you, you can tell me. Just tell me-”

“There’s nothing going on!” John said, and now he was rising to his feet, his voice growing louder. “I just want you to leave, all right? I want you out of my life!”

Mark took an involuntary step backwards, his eyes wide. “John, I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand? I never want to see you again!”

“Why?!” Mark shouted back.

John took all his vitriol, all his rage over what he had to do, over everything he’d lost, and redirected it at Mark. He knew the man wouldn’t believe him otherwise, would still come back. “You think you’re my bloody friend, but you’re not. You’re just some man who stole my wife from me. I’m tired of seeing you. Looking after you. Look after yourself, North.”

“Then who’ll look after you?!” Mark retorted, and there were tears in his eyes now, and John hated him for that, because it just made things more difficult.

“I don’t need you. I’ve never needed you, or anyone. I’m a police officer. I’ve seen things you can’t even fathom.”

“If you really didn’t need me, why did you keep me around?!”

John took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Suppose I felt sorry for you. Poor Mark North, still so sad about the death of his girlfriend he only dated for five months. Poor Mark North, couldn’t even handle keeping his job or his house after she died. It’s pathetic, really. She was my wife for _twenty years_. That’s my excuse, and I even went back to work before you. What’s your excuse? What’s your reasoning for still wearing that bloody ring around your neck after eight years, the one she never even touched?” He spat each word, hoping it created the illusion of anger, when in reality he had to because they were otherwise impossible to dislodge from his throat and force out.

He’d backed Mark into a wall, and the man was staring up at him now, the tears starting to overflow onto his cheeks. He looked as sad and confused and angry as he had the day he’d attacked John, thinking he’d killed Zoe, and John wanted to do nothing more than to pull him into his arms and hug him as tightly as he needed and apologize, but he couldn’t.

_It’s for his own good._

_He’ll die if you don’t do this._

“Get out,” John said, his voice quiet now, but firm.

They stayed there for a moment, eyes locked, and then Mark nodded and left the flat, closing the door too hard behind him.

John collapsed back onto the sofa. He stared at his uneaten takeout, then back at his side table. It felt like Zoe’s eyes were watching him from her picture, asking him how he could have been so cruel.

“I love him, Zo,” he said to her. “You picked a good man, and I love him. And I won’t let him die like you did. You hear me? I’m not going to let him die.”


	3. Chapter 3

John had to admit to himself that he’d thought it would be easier than it turned out to be, not having Mark around.

He’d lost so many. There was nothing he wouldn’t give to know that Zoe, Justin or Alice was out there still alive, even if they despised him and he could never see them again. He’d thought that it wouldn’t feel like a loss at all, even. That he could move on. Forget. Not have to think about it or get that close to anyone again.

It was a loss, though, and he felt Mark’s absence every single time the hour they usually spent playing chess together ticked by. Every time he walked by the café they would meet at, or drove through the side of the city where he lived, or heard the name of his firm mentioned. He felt it in the evening when the darkness of his own thoughts threatened to consume him, and he realized that in this situation he’d usually call Alice or Mark, but they were both gone.

His constant was gone. The one thing he’d felt he could rely on, and he’d destroyed it with his own hands.

Better him them someone else. Better that Mark be hurt and angry at John’s harsh words than strung up in an abandoned building being tortured by Cornelius’ men, or any of the number of people who had reason to see John as an enemy. Mark deserved better than to have to bear the weight of John’s sins, as Zoe had once had to.

It got easier, too, as time went on. Everything got easier. After a month, he didn’t even think of Mark that often anymore, or at least not for very long, so long as he focused on the work.

Then one day he got a phone call while he was at the office.

He was in the middle of briefing Benny when it happened. Benny peeked at his phone screen. “Who is it?”

“Donno.” He glanced at the caller ID and froze momentarily.

_Mark North._

Why was he calling? He’d almost never called, when they were friends. Then again, he usually hadn’t had to. They’d met up so often that anything they needed to say they could say in person.

He stared at the phone as it buzzed. Mark likely just wanted to talk, and John couldn’t blame him. The man surely had a lot of questions- why John had suddenly been so cruel to him after eight years of friendship being the primary one, of course. But they were questions John couldn’t answer, so he rejected the call and pocketed his phone.

“You’re not going to pick up?” Benny inquired.

“You know what I say,” John said mildly.

“’Get a reputation for answering phones and all they do is ring’, yes, I remember,” Benny said, smiling and shaking his head.

John tried not to think about the call. There was no point dwelling on it. If it was something serious, Mark would have called again, and the whole point of their argument was so that they wouldn’t talk again. Any sign that they were friends, that John cared for Mark, could be used against him.

He had to press on. After all, as always, there was a killer on the loose, and this one knew John’s name and face. If there was any time he needed Mark to stay away, it was now.

 

_“Detective Chief Inspector Luther. I saw what you said on the news. I will find you. You will pay for your disrespect.”_

DSU Schenk closed the video with a sigh. “I don’t know why you keep doing this. Using yourself as bait.”

“Because it works,” John said, crossing his arms. “You know it does, Boss. And it’s not as though anyone else here could do it. He’d go after your family, your friends. I have nothing to lose. He has to hurt me.”

“You have plenty to lose. Namely, your life.”

John shook his head. “No, I won’t die. I never have before, have I?”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

John’s phone rang and he looked down at it. “…Unknown number. Could be the killer. Ben-”

“Already on it,” Benny said, his fingers blurring across his keyboard. “Setting up to trace it now.”

John accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

A woman’s voice spoke calmly and professionally. “Are you a friend of Mark North?”

John’s blood ran cold.

He’d been too late. He’d known this would happen; he should have always known it would happen, but he’d been too late. He should have distanced himself from Mark months ago. Years ago.

“Depends who’s asking,” he growled into the phone.

“Er, Boss,” Benny said.

John stared at him. “What, Ben?”

“This is a recognized number. We don’t have to trace it. I don’t think it’s the killer.”

“Who is it then?”

“King George Hospital.”

The woman was still speaking over the phone. “We tried to get in touch with Mr. North’s emergency contact, but got no response. Yours was the number most recently called in his phone.”

John’s hand was trembling slightly. “Is he alive? Mark North, is he alive?”

“Yes, sir, but he’s doing poorly. It would help if you could contact his work, or next of kin-”

“He doesn’t have any in the area,” John said. Mark’s father had died when he was young, and his mother had passed away recently. John had gone to her wake. She must have been Mark’s emergency contact. He hadn’t remembered to update it after her death. He had no siblings, and more distant relatives were in Ireland and Scotland. “I’ll be there.”

He hung up and had to use all his restraint not to throw his phone across the room, to yell and push over desks. _He’s not dead,_ he reminded himself. _Someone else has been hurt because of you again, but he’s not dead yet._

“This Mark North…he was Zoe’s lover, wasn’t he? I remember him,” DSU Schenk said cautiously.

“It was that bastard. He must have tried to kill him, to get to me-”

“Why would he do that?”

John took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Because he’s my mate. Mark, he’s my mate. I have to go.”

“Wait!” Schenk interrupted grabbed his sleeve before he could storm out. “If he wanted to kill him, why didn’t he finish the job? This man is a seasoned killer. He doesn’t make mistakes like that. This could very well be a trap to draw you out.”

John pulled on his coat. “Then it’s working. Because I’m going. If he wants to kill me, he can try it.”

“John-”

This time, John ignored him and stormed out anyway.

 

He had had no idea what to expect when the nurse led him to Mark’s bed, not having given the woman who called him the chance to tell him the nature of Mark’s wounds. It was both better and worse than he’d expected. The man was hooked to several IVs, pale, and appeared completely dead to the world, but according to the monitors his vitals were steady. His torso was wrapped in thick gauze, which the doctor had just finished changing when John walked in.

“I’m a friend,” he murmured. “And a police officer. DCI John Luther.”

The doctor straightened up and introduced himself. “Your friend was very lucky, you know.”

“What happened?”

“He was stabbed. Many times, with a small knife. Any one of those piercings could have ruptured a major organ or artery, but they were all in non-vital areas.”

“But…that doesn’t make sense.”

The doctor was bemused. “What do you mean?”

“The man I’m looking for wouldn’t have needed to stab him that many times, and he certainly wouldn’t have missed. He was a med student. If he wanted to kill someone with a knife, he could’ve done it in one hit…It doesn’t add up.”

The doctor shrugged. “I’ll leave you alone. There’s already an officer on watch to make sure whoever did it doesn’t try to come back and finish the job.”

“Good, good…”

John collapsed into the chair next to Mark’s bed, feeling more tired and conflicted than he had in weeks. A cocktail of emotions was brewing inside of him- anger at the man who’d stabbed Mark, confusion at his poorly executed methods, pain at seeing his friend in such a state, fear for both their lives- and more than anything, an overwhelming sense of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This is my fault. I knew…I didn’t want to say the things I said to you, but I had to, and this is why. So nothing like this would happen to you. But I was too late, and I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand to grasp Mark’s and held it. “I’ll kill the bastard who did it, and then you’ll never have to see me again. You’ll never have to be hurt again.”

“Not…everything…is about you, you know…”

The voice was so weak and heavy with pain that it took John a moment to even realize what had been said, or that it had been said by Mark. “Mark! You’re awake- no, don’t try to talk, you need-”

“It’s…not your fault, John,” Mark continued. His eyes were open, but only halfway, and they were glazed over by sleep and whatever drugs were in his system.

“What are you talking about?” John said. “Of course it is. I’m the one who provoked the killer; he came after you because he knew it would hurt me-”

“I don’t…know what you’re talking…about, but the man who did this…doesn’t know you. It was…Jonathan Graves. I saw him before he stabbed me. He’s…the brother of Donny Graves. The man…I got sentenced to life in prison. Wanted revenge…for his brother.”

John stared at him. “This wasn’t about my case at all.”

Mark shook his head ever so slightly, then grimaced in pain.

“You- you should rest,” John said. “How do you feel?”

“Like…I got run over by a lorry. But…better, now that I know you don’t hate me.”

John laughed wryly. “No, I don’t hate you. I love you.” He didn’t know quite how he meant that yet; he didn’t know if he meant it the same way he’d meant it when he’d said it about Justin or the same way as when he’d said it about Zoe, but either way, he meant it. “But that’s exactly why I had to push you away. Everything I love dies, Mark. You can’t die. I can’t let you.”

“And yet…here I am. I’d still be here, whether I’d met you…or not,” Mark rasped. “Risk…is a part of life. If being with you means I’m subject to slightly more risk…I can live with that. I want you around, John Luther. If you…want me.”

John’s eyes were burning. “I always want you around, Mark.”

He took the hand he’d been holding and pressed it to his lips. He felt simultaneously as through a great weight had been lifted off of him, and an equally great one added on. It scared him; the idea of letting himself care about Mark. Letting himself be with him. He didn’t think he could survive another loss like the ones he’d already experienced. It hurt him enough to see the pain that Mark was in now.

At the same time, just as every other time they’d met, he felt more at ease in Mark’s presence than he had the entirety of the last month spent without him.

“I’m going to find Jonathan Graves and get him thrown in prison like his sorry excuse for a brother, and I’m going to find the killer who’s targeting me and stop him from hurting you or me or anyone else,” he said.

“And then…?” Mark asked, his eyes starting to drift closed.

“And then I’m gonna come back here, and I’m going to stay with you while you recover. Once you’re strong enough, we can play chess again.”

“I’d…like that…”

“Yeah. I reckon I’d like that too.”

 

As it turned out, he didn’t even need to find Jonathan Graves. The man had turned himself in. He’d apparently only been acting on his brother’s orders, and when Mark’s blood was actually on his hands he’d become terrified and guilty over what he’d done.

The killer tried to face off with John alone, but John had outsmarted him, and he’d ended up shot through the head by one of their personnel.

That was both current threats down for the count. Of course it wouldn’t be the end- there would never be any end to the risks to either John or Mark’s life. John was a police officer. Mark was a prosecutor. There were dozens of people who’d love for both of them to be in the ground, and that thought terrified John, but he couldn’t let it consume him. Mark was right: risk was a part of life, and especially so in their fields of work.

He had also been right when he’d said that it wasn’t all about John. John had thought he’d been acting unselfishly when he’d forced Mark out of his life, but he hadn’t been. Why was it up to him to decide that it was too dangerous for them to remain friends? That was Mark’s decision, not his.

When Mark was released from the hospital, John drove him home. They talked the whole way there, about nothing and everything. Despite what had happened, Mark was determined to go back to his job. He didn’t seem scared at all by the idea of returning to the work that had nearly gotten him killed. John was surprised but impressed. Mark was always stronger than, braver than John gave him credit for.

“I just want to get back to my own place,” Mark said. “My own life. This isn’t going to stop me.”

“Good. It shouldn’t.”

John found himself pausing outside of Mark’s flat, however.

“…You still need looking after,” he said, and it was true. Regardless of how much he might want to, Mark couldn’t go back to work for at least another couple of weeks. He’d still need to change his gauze regularly, and his range of motion was still limited, tasks like driving or walking for extended periods still painful. John hated the idea of him having to drive himself back to the hospital for check ups alone, going to the grocery store and walking around alone, doing all his own cooking and cleaning…

John swiveled in his seat and looked at him. “Come and stay at mine.”

“John, I don’t-” Mark started to protest, as John had known he would. Mark had always had a strong sense of pride, a need to believe that he was capable and didn’t have to rely on others.

“Just for a week or two,” John said firmly. “Until you’re back at…if not one hundred percent, then at least eighty. That flat of yours doesn’t even have reliable phone service. I don’t like the idea of you staying there alone. All right?”

Mark laughed and shook his head, but eventually said, “If it’s what you really want.”

“Good. I’ve got enough in my head without having to worry about you.”

Of course, having Mark at his place was a risk in itself. It was the first place anyone who was after John would go looking for him, and Mark would be an easy target while still injured.  What would really be best for him was to stay at a safe house with a carer to look after him, but John knew he’d never agree to that. He had to trust that Mark was safe with him. That they could be safe with each other.

“Go in, grab your clothes and whatever books you want,” John said, nodding at the door to Mark’s flat.

“Right. One moment.”

It pained John even to watch as Mark limped the short distance to the door. He knew better than to offer help, but did eventually follow him in to help carry Mark’s things to the car. The man was in no state to be lifting heavy bags. John put them in the boot, and as he moved to get back behind the wheel he found Mark leaning against the passenger side door, looking shaky.

“You okay?” he asked. He felt like he’d asked Mark that a million times since Zoe had died those years ago, and Mark asked him it.

“I feel…like a burden,” Mark said, lightly touching his stomach and grimacing.

“You’re hurt. Recovery takes time.”

“It’s not just that. I understand now, why you did it. Why you yelled at me and made me leave.” Mark met his eyes. “You were scared that us caring about each other…might end with me bleeding out in a ditch somewhere.”

“I was wrong. Apparently you’re good enough at bleeding out in a ditch somewhere without my help.”

They both laughed, but the laughter didn’t reach either of their eyes.

“Thing is, I get that. You thought being friends with me might end up hurting me. Now…I get the feeling that my being friends with you is only going to end up hurting you,” Mark said. “You’re a police officer, and a brilliant one at that. You have enough to worry about without having to worry about me as well.”

John was quiet for a moment, then said, “Nah.”

“Nah?”

“Get in the car.”

“You don’t think-”

John sighed. “I reckon I’m always gonna worry about the people I love, Mark. That’s the nature of my life, isn’t it? Especially when the people I love have a tendency to get themselves stabbed eight times in the torso. But I wouldn’t stop worrying about you just because we didn’t talk anymore. In fact, I’d probably just worry about you more, seeing as I’m clearly not the only dangerous thing in your life.”

“Every time you get a new case, I think…I think it’ll be the one that gets you,” Mark said softly. “How many times have you almost died? I mean, honestly? It’s ridiculous, the danger you put yourself in. You’re not the only one who worries. That’s why I called you, the day before I was stabbed. You were on the news, talking about the killer…I knew you were turning yourself into a target. I was terrified, John.”

“Guess we’ll always be worried about each other.”

“Guess so.”

“It’ll help, knowing you’re not living in that beat up flat of yours alone,” John said.

“Yes, and it’ll help to know you’re not in that mildew-filled place of yours alone either.”

“I’ll have to get that fixed. I don’t mind breathing in the spores myself, but it seems rude to subject my injured guest to it.”

They smiled at each other, and this time the smiles were genuine. John offered Mark an arm to help him into the car, and Mark allowed it without comment.

It hadn’t been worth it, John thought as he drove back to his flat. The pain of worrying about another person, being scared for their life, wasn’t worse than the pain of being alone and not letting yourself love anyone. Mark had always loved too much, but so had John. They both had, and that was why it had taken both of them so long to recover from Zoe’s death. They still hadn’t completely recovered, not really, which was part of the reason they still needed each other.

Not the only reason, though. Zoe had loved Mark because he was like her. John didn’t only love Mark because he reminded him of Zoe, no, but those aspects he’d loved so much in her were indeed present in Mark, alongside many other things. His own personal brand of vulnerability, of bravery, of gentleness, of love.

There had been times when John had thought that he and Mark were only friends because they needed someone to wallow in their grief with, but if that was ever true, it certainly wasn’t the case now. They were well-matched. They enjoyed each other’s company. They worried each other, but they also made each other better.

Of course John got a call as soon as he’d brought Mark’s things up to his flat and while he was in the middle of helping the man up the stairs. The lift was down for maintenance, but at least this building actually had a reputation for getting work done quickly, or else he might have dropped the entire idea of Mark living with him- climbing the stairs was clearly causing Mark a lot of pain, even with his help.

“What’s up, Boss?” he said into the phone. He listened for a moment, then said, “…I’ll be there.”

“Duty calls?” Mark inquired, slightly out of breath.

“Yep. Will you be all right on your own?”

“Get me to the top of these stairs and I’ll be golden.”

He was a small man, so it wasn’t difficult to help him the rest of the way to the door.

“Er, there’s no food in the fridge again,” John said guiltily. “I’ll pick us up something on my way back, whenever that is. If you get hungry before then, order something. It’s on me.”

“John,” Mark said as he turned away.

He turned back. “Mm?”

“Thank you. For this. Letting me stay here.”

“Thank you for letting me talk you into it.”

Mark smiled at him, and John felt something he hadn’t felt since he and Zoe had separated: a feeling that there was someone waiting for him who cared, who’d be there when he got out of work, someone to say good morning and good night to. He’d lived in this flat for a year, but only now did it feel like a home, because Mark was in it.

“She was right,” he said. “Zoe. Then again, she was always right.”

Mark tilted his head. “Right about what?”

“You’re not boring.”

Mark laughed, and in a moment of compulsion that felt simultaneously momentous and completely natural, John leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

“See you around,” he said.

“And you,” Mark said.

John nodded at him, then turned and started his descent back down the stairs, back to his job, from which he’d just gotten word of a kidnapping. Back to danger, and uncertainty, and the same all-consuming darkness that plagued him every day he spent working in this city.

But this time he wasn’t alone.


	4. Chapter 4

John Luther didn’t get much sleep. He felt like he hadn’t slept in years, since the day he’d become a police officer. It wasn’t in his nature, especially when he was working on a case.

As a result, he was very surprised when he awoke at six in morning to the light of sunrise streaming through the windows, and realized he actually felt rested. He didn’t know how many hours he’d slept, but apparently for once they had been enough.

With a start, he realized something else: there was a chill in his body, one that was likely the result of the fact that his covers were all gone. Why were his covers gone?

No, not gone, they’d been pulled away. This was something that happened all the time, he recalled, amused. Even when the heat was all the way up, Zoe was still cold. She was small, so the chill got to her bones easily. Like most other nights, last night she must have rolled away from him, taking all the covers for herself.

He could smell the scent of her beside him, the scent of her shampoo and a hint of tobacco- she’d said she quit, but she still had one every now and then, he knew. He reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Come on, Zo, I’m freezing here-”

A bleary eyed person rolled over to blink at him sleepily, but they were blue eyes not brown, and they certainly didn’t belong to Zoe Luther.

John was catapulted back to the present, to reality, with a start. He wasn’t in his and Zoe’s old Victorian house. He wasn’t in bed next to her. She was dead, had been for eight years. She was not the one he’d touched last night, whose slender torso he’d run his hands over, whose lips he’d kissed.

Mark didn’t seem to have registered what John had said, thankfully. His eyes were still clouded with sleep. Upon hearing John’s voice, he just rolled closer to him and nudged himself under John’s arm until John put it around him. He still had all the blankets, but his touch was a viable source of warmth too, so John allowed it. Mark buried his face against John’s collarbone and closed his eyes again.

John let out a long breath, not discontented, and somewhat reminded of the dog his family had owned as a youth. She’d been a big one, but still thought herself a lap dog, and had a tendency to decide to fall asleep on him or his mum at the most inconvenient times. He should have been getting up now, in fact, if he wanted to have time to fix breakfast before heading in to the office, but the concept of waking Mark up felt impossibly cruel all of a sudden.

Mark’s breath was soft and rhythmic again his skin. This close, the smell of tobacco and shampoo was stronger. John remembered the first time he’d smelled it on Mark after Zoe died. It had seemed like a cruel joke, then. _How could you wear the same shampoo as her? Smoke the same brand of cigarettes?_ But of course, Mark had done both of those things since before he’d even met Zoe. They’d been two sides of the same coin.

John didn’t usually make that mistake anymore: the mistake of seeing her, thinking of her when he saw Mark. He hadn’t last night. He hadn’t thought of Zoe once when he’d touched Mark; he hadn’t heard her in his moans or tasted her in his sweat. That had been all Mark, though the experience was as comforting and as exhilarating as it had been between him and Zoe. There had been the same level of understanding in it as there had been with her, too- he and Mark certainly hadn’t known each other for as long and weren’t as familiar with each other’s bodies, but there was a different sort of familiarity between them, the raw vulnerability that came with having loved and lost the same person.

Why this morning, then? Why had he made the mistake again? He felt ashamed, suddenly. Maybe that was why he couldn’t bring himself to move. It was something of an apology. It was as Zoe had said: _You care more about the dead than the living._ He had to stay put and let Mark sleep on his chest, use him for whatever he needed, as an apology for still being so haunted. A plea that Mark not leave him like Zoe had, not for the same reason. He loved Mark. He needed Mark. Mark was all he had left, though he’d never say that out loud, because it sounded like an ultimatum and he was done with ultimatums.

It wasn’t the smell, though, he realized as he lay there and Mark’s chest rose and fell against his, every quiet beat of the man’s heart synced with his own. Or any of Mark’s other similarities to Zoe. What had tripped him up this time was this _feeling._

He hadn’t felt it once since Zoe died. The feeling of someone next to him, someone in his bed, the feeling of trusting and caring about that person so deeply. It wasn’t the feeling of the aftermath of a one night stand- not that John had had many of those- it was the feeling of waking up next to the person he loved and lived with and wanted to be with for as long as possible. His person.

And yet, this was the first time they’d slept together. Literally slept together- they’d had sex a few times before last night. Once on the sofa, once in the back of an empty theatre playing a classic film, and once on the bed in Mark’s flat when they’d gone there to pick up more of his things. Usually, though, John slept on the sofa in his flat while Mark took the bed. Mark had protested these arrangements at first, but given in on John’s insistence that it was only logical, seeing as Mark was injured.

John glanced down at Mark’s bare torso, currently pressed against his own. The gauze was gone, but the stitches were still there. He’d been careful, the times they’d had sex. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Mark more.

John traced the stitches with his fingers and felt Mark shiver slightly beneath his touch. He was still asleep, John could tell from his breathing; it was an involuntary response. The first time John had ever touched Mark, on the sofa- slipped his hand onto his thigh, tilted his head so their lips met, all of it ever so gently as to not cause him pain- he’d thought about the fact that _she’d_ touched Mark that way too. Touched the same places. Heard the same sounds. She probably hadn’t been as gentle, but then Mark hadn’t been as fragile back then. He wasn’t fragile now either, at least in any aspect other than the physical.

Mark’s heartbeat, his steady breaths, were like a lullaby to John. The last thought he had before drifting back to sleep was that he wasn’t going to sleep on the sofa anymore.

 

When John awoke again, Mark was gone.

He panicked for a moment, his heart leaping to his throat, before he sat up and heard sound coming from the kitchen. It was the sound of plates being moved, something sizzling on the rusty stovetop, and of a low, melodic voice singing.

Mark sung often, especially when he was cooking. This time it was “Ever Fallen in Love” by the Buzzcocks. He loved punk bands, or had done while he was at university, John knew. Whenever Mark sang their songs, though, they sounded less punk and more soulful ballad. He had a great voice, despite denying this objective fact whenever he was told it.

John took a moment just to flop back onto his pillows, close his eyes, and listen to Mark sing before finally getting up and throwing some clothes on. Just briefs and trousers, though. He could tell Mark appreciated that by how abruptly he stopped singing and shot John his lopsided smile when he entered the kitchen.

Mark was wearing his silk red bathrobe, himself. It looked rather silly on him, John had always thought. At odds with the rest of his neutral, down-to-Earth persona. Not in a bad way, though, especially not the way he was wearing it now- with nothing underneath it. They were both allowing themselves to be so bare, so unclothed in front of the other, even in the bright morning light. In a way, that felt like a stronger act of trust and closeness than the sex had been.

John walked over to Mark and stood behind him. He placed his hands on Mark’s hips and kissed him on the cheek from behind. It was such a simple, quick interaction, but that too felt even more intimate than the sex- _because_ it was so simple, so natural. It was a “good morning” kiss. You didn’t kiss your mate like that, you didn’t kiss a friend-with-benefits like that. That was a kiss reserved for someone you were in love with. Who you were dating, had been for a long time, who you lived with. You kissed your boyfriend like that.

Was Mark North his boyfriend?

The word didn’t sit right in John’s head. It felt somehow simultaneously too strong, and not strong enough. Paradoxically both overly serious and overly trivial.

“You’re up early,” John commented.

“Take a seat,” Mark said. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”

“What did I do to deserve all this?” John asked. Mark often cooked dinner, but almost never breakfast. He was usually still asleep when John left for work.

“You’re almost never still asleep by this hour,” Mark said with a shrug. “I wanted to let you sleep in, but I knew that if you did you’d have no time to make something to eat and would just go without. I didn’t want you going in to work on an empty stomach.”

“All right, Nan,” John said sarcastically, but then he smiled. “…Thanks. You know me too well.”

“You don’t sleep often. I know you don’t. Sometimes I move wrong in bed and the pain wakes me up, and…I swear half the time it does I look at you and you’re still awake. Lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Or reading by the light of your phone. You can keep the light on, you know. I don’t mind. I like light when I sleep.”

Mark set a plate down in front of John. Bacon, sausage and eggs. All the staples of an English breakfast. Mark had gone out of his way to make the bacon and sausage for John, despite being a vegetarian himself. It smelled delicious. He set a cup of tea next to it, and without tasting John knew it would be made exactly how he liked it. It always was.

Mark sat down next to him with his own plate. “I’m glad you were able to actually get some rest.”

_It was because I was with you,_ John thought, but didn’t say it.

Mark looked embarrassed suddenly. “And sorry for hoarding the covers, by the way. I’m notorious for that. I don’t even realize I’m doing it. It was a battle over them with Zoe every night.” His eyes drifted down to the table and he smiled. “Guess she must have stolen them from you, too.”

“Yeah, she did,” John said fondly.

There was quiet between them, neither picking up their forks to eat. When John looked at Mark again, his smile had changed. Turned slightly harder. Sadder. Forced.

“Mark?”

“I’m not her.”

John blinked. “What?”

Mark was still staring at the table, smile fixed in place. “I know…we’re alike. We drink our tea the same way. We’re both lawyers. We wear the same shampoo, smoke the same cigarettes, steal covers the same way, but…she’s gone, John. Nobody can replace her. Certainly not me. I don’t want to.”

“Mark, what are you-”

“You called me Zo. This morning. I was half asleep, but I remember it.” Mark shook his head. His eyes were shining, and the smile was faltering.

“Ah. Right. I was half asleep myself; it was just a slip of the tongue.”

“Was it?” And now Mark was looking at John. Defiantly meeting his eyes. “I appreciate your friendship, John. Your hospitality. Everything you’ve done for me. But if you’re just keeping me around because I remind you of her…”

Mark looked extremely startled when John laughed out loud.

“Sorry,” John said, stifling the laugh. “It’s just…I used to think the same thing. I thought it again this morning too, for a moment. That I might be projecting Zoe on to you. Thing is, that’s daft, though, innit? You’re nothing like Zoe. I realized that months back. Not least because you’re a white bloke, but because…you’re different. You just are.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at him, apparently not satisfied.

“You…you like punk songs. Zoe never listened to punk in her life. You prefer red wine to white. You’re a better cook. You’ve got worse eyesight, and you like black and white movies more. She preferred dogs, and you prefer cats. You like cold weather and she liked warm. There are a million tiny things that make a person who they are, and you may have more in common with Zoe than most, but there’s also a good amount you don’t have in common,” John said.

He’d gotten to know Zoe so well over their eighteen years of marriage, and Mark so well over their eight years of friendship. When he actually sat down and thought about it now, the idea of mistaking them for each other really did seem impossible. It really had been just a slip of the tongue.

“I don’t want you around because of Zoe,” he said. “I want you around because I care about you. I assumed you knew that.”

Mark looked guilty. “I did. I did know that. And I know…it’s far from an insult to be compared to Zoe, anyway.” He laughed half-heartedly. “I’m vain, I suppose. I loved her too, but I didn’t like the thought…. You looked at me so kindly, John. Last night. I didn’t like the thought that the person you were looking at then wasn’t me, it was her. I wanted you to be looking at me like that.”

“I was. I never saw anyone else.”

They were quiet again for a moment, and then both broke the silence trying to speak at the same time, resulting in neither of them hearing what the other had said.

“Go on, then,” John said. “You first.”

“…I think you shouldn’t sleep on the sofa anymore,” Mark repeated cautiously.

John felt an incredible warmth fill his chest. “You know, I had the same idea. You promise not to let me freeze to death, though?”

“I’ll do my best,” Mark said with a grin.

“It’s a deal.”

“What were you trying to say?”

“I said, I think you should sell your place.”

Mark stared at him. “Really?”

John nodded. “Bring all your plants here. God knows I’m sick of having to stop by all the time to water them. The rest of your books and magazines, and whatever else you need, and then stop paying for the space. It’s a waste.”

“You…really want me here?”

“If you want to be here.”

Mark paused, then said, “No.”

All the warmth that had been building in John’s chest started to drain back out again. He coughed. “Well, I can’t blame you. I did say you’d only be staying while you recovered, and it’s understandable to want your own-”

Mark interrupted him. “If I’m not going to be paying for my place anymore, we can afford a better flat than this. One where there’s no mildew and the lift never breaks.”

John could hardly believe what he’d just said. “You’ll do it, then? You’ll stay?”

“Yes, as long as the person you want to stay with you is me. Not Zoe.”

“Of course.”

He was reminded of her again, but like the last time, it wasn’t because Mark was so like her- it was because of the feeling. The last time he’d felt such overwhelming affection, such a sense that things were going to be all right because he was walking into the future with the person he loved by his side, had been with her. When he’d married her.

It wasn’t a marriage, but this was still a promise they were making together. To sleep in the same bed, in the same flat, for however long they were both happy to do so.

“Breakfast is going to get cold,” Mark pointed out with a smile.

“We’d better eat it, then.”

 

“Have you seen DCI Luther today, Boss?” Benny asked DSU Schenk surreptitiously.

“Yes, he’s in his office,” Schenk responded. “What about him?”

“He came in five minutes late, and I could’ve sworn he was…humming. A Buzzcocks song.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but as far as I’m aware there’s no law against that,” Schenk said mildly.

“It’s just that…that’s Luther. John Luther. He actually seemed happy. John Luther is never happy. And he certainly isn’t a fan of the Buzzcocks.”

“Are you bothered that your superior is in a good mood?”

“No, just…curious, is all.”

“Then I suggest you talk to him about it.”

Schenk was putting on a front of nonchalance, but as soon as John walked out of his office to talk about their current case, Benny could see his eyes were following the man as closely as Benny’s own. It wasn’t just the humming that morning either. John’s entire aura was different. His walk less labored, his head unbowed, like some great weight that had been resting on him for years had been, if not lifted, than lightened considerably.

John paused and glanced between them. “Have I got something on my face?”

“No, Boss,” Benny said hastily, turning back to his computer.

“Right, well, as I’m sure DSU Schenk informed you, we have a new case,” John said and dropped a heavy file on the desk. “Kidnapping. Reckon it might be connected to a murder that happened twenty years ago…”

It wasn’t the most serious case that the aptly named “Serious and Serial” unit had taken on, but it was worth checking out while there was a lull. There couldn’t be a violent serial killer on the streets every week, thankfully, or John really would get no sleep at all.

Still, John took it as seriously as any other. He briefed them on everything, and when he got back to his desk he wasn’t humming anymore. He wasn’t particularly gloomy, but not happy either: he was hard. Focused. Like he had been ever since he became an officer. Benny quickly forgot about that morning, more concerned with the mind of the kidnapper- or, more particularly, any social media accounts he might be running- than the mind of his detective chief inspector.

Then, a little after noon, John got a call. Benny was sat close enough to John’s office to overhear what he was saying to the caller.

“Hey. Thanks for checking in. You’re still doing okay? …Yeah, yeah. All’s quiet here, though of course I’ve just cursed myself by saying that. Should be home for a late supper. Do you have enough to fix something or should I pick something up? …Right. Well, look after yourself. I’ll see you tonight.”

It wasn’t the conversation itself that surprised Benny, but the look on John’s face as it was held. The way he’d spoken. There was such a gentleness to his tone, of the sort that Benny could only recall hearing him use when talking to a victim who was hurt or scared. Or to someone he really loved.

When he’d looked at his phone after it rang, read whatever name was displayed there, his face and entire posture had softened too. A tension loosened, as if he’d been worried about something and hadn’t even realized he was until the very moment the phone had gone off.

Whoever he’d been talking to, he loved them. They apparently lived with him, too. That surprised Benny immensely. Had John lived with any woman, since Zoe? Not that he could recall. There was that one woman, Mary. But that had been short-lived. He knew John was a private person, but he still would have thought that if the man had been with someone long enough for them to move in together, Benny would have heard about it, would have run into this woman at some point.

He forced himself to keep mum for the rest of the day until John’s shift was over, but as John was getting up and putting on his coat, he couldn’t resist wandering over.

“So,” he said. “Who is she?”

John stared blankly at him. “Who’s who?”

“Your bird.”

“Sorry, but I’ve got no clue what you’re on about, Ben. What bird?”

“Oh, come off it,” Benny said. “We’re mates. You can tell me. There’s no use lying either, I heard you on the phone.”

John stared at him a moment longer, silent, before saying, “I haven’t got a bird.”

“John-”

“I’m serious.”

“Who was on the phone then, ay? And who made you so happy before work today that you turned up late and humming the bloody Buzzcocks?”

“It was my mate on the phone,” John said coolly. “And frankly it’s none of your business.”

“I’m not looking to pry. I’m just happy for you.”

“I appreciate that, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

John turned up the collar on his coat and walked out of the office, leaving Benny baffled and all the more curious than before.

 

_You’re barking up the wrong tree._

That was what John had said. He pondered those words as he drove home, and why he’d said them.

Benny wasn’t barking up the wrong tree at all. He’d implied that John was in a relationship, that he was living with someone who made him happy, who he’d had sex with- all of those things were true, weren’t they? The only thing that Benny had gotten wrong was the gender of the person. So why had John dismissed him so readily?

He wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed to be with a man. He knew Benny well enough to know that he would pass no judgment either. Was it because of who Mark was, how their relationship started? Maybe. It wasn’t exactly common practice to date the man your wife once left you for.

No, it wasn’t that either.

It was those words again. They were the problem.

_Boyfriend. Dating._ The idea that Mark was _his._ That other people would know that they were living together. Think of them as a _couple._

It just felt wrong. It was something that ought to be reserved for people who weren’t John. People who were normal, who hadn’t lived the life he’d lived. Boyfriends and girlfriends and dating were for people who dreamed of getting married and of white picket fences. He didn’t think of those things when he was with Mark. He just wanted him around. And he didn’t want to talk about it with anyone else, not even Benny.

When John got home, Mark had just finished fixing dinner. John hesitated for a moment after he walked through the door, unsure if the kiss he’d given Mark this morning was something that they were going to carry on with- if they’d reached the point at which a kiss was a normal and accepted greeting.

Mark made up his mind for him. He walked up to John and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Welcome home.”

“That smells delicious.”

“I know.”

“You really didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”

“I don’t mind it.” Mark wiped his hands on his apron before taking it off. “Keeps me sane, really. I’m going mad in here, with nothing to do. So much time.”

John leaned against the counter. He was glad to hear that. When he and Mark had been away from their jobs after Zoe died, neither of them had gotten restless or stir crazy. They were too busy drowning in their own grief. Loss could do that to you: make the days run and melt into each other, seem indistinguishable. Time meant nothing when you were grieving. It was better to be hyper aware of its passing than not to notice it all.

“I spent all day looking at flats online,” Mark continued as he made the table. “I’ve picked out a couple potentials. You should take a look. Of course, we’ll visit before we buy.”

“As is evidenced by this dump, I don’t have an overly strong sense of taste. Whatever you want is fine by me.”

“Don’t say that. You know me. Say that, and we might end up with some sort of Beatnik bungalow next to a weed farm in the East End.”

“Well, if it’s what makes you happy.”

Both their eyes were twinkling now as they suppressed laughter.

They sat down at the table, and John was tempted to dig into the dish Mark had made immediately- he wasn’t even sure exactly what it was, though it appeared to be some kind of curry- but he forced himself to blow on it first so he didn’t burn his mouth.

“You know, Mark,” John said, pointing his fork at him. “You’re the only white person I’ve met who doesn’t neglect his spices.”

“Liberté sent me to India for a time back in 2005. I know spice.”

It tasted as good as it smelled, unsurprisingly. They talked and laughed as they ate. John hadn’t laughed so much in a long time. When Mark went quiet, though, John knew what was coming.

“Speaking of Liberté sans Frontière…I’m going to go back to work next week,” Mark said finally. “It’s about time. I’ve had a full range of movement for a while now.”

“But you’re still in pain.”

“I’m going to be in pain for ages. Maybe I’ll always feel some kind of pain from this. I was bloody stabbed; it’s to be expected. But I can work. I have to; not working is driving me up the wall. I’ve got so little to think about all day, nothing but…” He shook his head. “I can’t even turn on the telly because I get worried I’ll hear something about you. DCI John Luther, in a hostage situation. DCI John Luther, baiting another murderer. DCI John Luther found dead in a ditch…”

“…That’s why you called me today,” John realized. He’d thought it was odd. Mark didn’t usually call while he was in the office, especially not without good reason.

“I’m sorry about that. My mind got the best of me. I started thinking something had happened. I just needed to hear your voice, to know that I was wrong. I don’t know why. I’m here all day and all I can do is think. Cook, read, and think. I wish I could just stop thinking.”

John knew exactly how he was feeling. But… “Are you sure you’re ready to go back to work?”

“Doesn’t matter. Already called in, told them I was coming.”

“Mark…”

“I feel…I feel fine,” Mark said. “I get the stitches out this weekend. By Monday I’ll practically be good as new. I don’t even like the idea of waiting until then, really, but it was the soonest they’d have me.”

John leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Keep calling me.”

Mark blinked.

“Every day,” John said. “When I’m at work, after it’s been a little while. Call me. I don’t need you sat here worried about me all day, all right? If it’s what you need to do to trust that I’m okay, then do it.”

It had also just been nice to hear Mark’s voice. Like a beacon of comfort, shining through the haunted ex-factory building that housed his office. He understood Mark’s fear all too well, too. That pit in the stomach, that worry that the person he loved was dead on the floor with a gunshot to the abdomen like she had been. To speak to him had been a relief.

“All right, but only if you promise to pick up. God knows how I’d feel if I rang and you didn’t.”

“I’ll pick up. And you had better promise not to forget to call from now on, or I might worry something happened to you, too.”

“It’s a promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

Benny didn’t understand why John was acting so strange about this girl of his. It was painfully clear to everyone in the office that she existed. Each of the past three days, usually around midday, John had excused himself for a phone call. He’d close the door to his office now when he did, so Benny could no longer hear was he was saying, but it was still obvious he was talking to her. When he spoke into his mobile, there was always a slight smile playing across his lips. A brightness in his eyes he didn’t have when speaking to anyone else.

Whoever she was, Benny was grateful for this woman, and what she was doing for his friend. He wanted to meet her. Anyone who could make John Luther feel better after everything that had happened had to be pretty incredible. Some kind of miracle worker, even. He pondered how gorgeous she must be. John was an erratic man, but a very good looking one. He had his pick of women if he wanted them.

Benny wasn’t going to pry, though. He’d learned his lesson. He was going to have to meet her eventually, so he’d wait until then.

 “Wheeler’s not happy about us turning down his offer,” John informed them that afternoon.

Wheeler was the kidnapper. He’d asked for two million pounds in return for the release of his hostage, a young boy. John had denied all negotiating protocol and just said no to him over the phone.

“What did you expect?” Schenk asked. “You didn’t even humor him. What if he kills the boy?”

“He won’t. I know how these people work by now, Boss. I know him. He wants to win. Killing the hostage isn’t winning, it’s losing,” John said. “He wants that two million quid, and he’s going to get it, no matter what he has to do. If threatening the boy isn’t enough…”

“Then he’ll kidnap someone else!”

“To do that, he’d have to leave his hide-y hole. Not be quite so invisible. At least that gives us a shot.”

“What are you going to do?” Benny asked.

John was pulling on his coat. “I know his route. I know how he operates. I’ll go out there now. If I catch him in the act…”

Schenk looked like he was going to argue, but then he just sighed and shook his head. “Very well. I’ll send a patrol with you.”

“No. If he sees them, he’ll get spooked. Won’t go through with it. I need him out, Boss. He’s been hiding underground like a rat. If we spook him, we’ll never see Jamie again.”

“You want me to send an officer out alone.”

“No. I want you to not stop an officer from leaving alone.”

Schenk looked at him, face a mask of uncertainty, before finally nodding. “Don’t get killed.”

“I won’t.”

John walked out of the office, glancing at his mobile as he did. He and Mark had just talked twenty minutes ago. Mark wouldn’t call again for hours. He knew what long days John could have- some nights he didn’t even come home. How long would it take Mark to find out if he really did die?

It didn’t matter, he scolded himself, because he wasn’t going to die.

 

An hour after John had left the building, Schenk got a call.

Whatever it was, Benny could tell it was bad. When Schenk put down the phone, his expression was dark.

“Boss?” a DS inquired. “What happened?”

“Just got word,” Schenk replied. “Someone hacked our database. They got the addresses of all of our officers.”

A ripple of concerned murmurs swept through the office.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” the same sergeant said. “Wheeler. This is his revenge. He’s not just going to kidnap someone, it’ll be one of ours. A family member. A spouse. Good god, Boss, I have a wife and child at home.”

“I know,” Schenk said. “I want men at every address in our database. I want them there now.” There was a cold fire behind his eyes now. “None of your loved ones will be hurt tonight.”

Benny picked up the phone. “I’ll call Luther. He doesn’t keep the radio on in situations like these, says it distracts him. He won’t have heard-”

“Don’t,” Schenk interrupted.

“…Boss-”

“It’ll only worry him. There’s nothing more he can do right now than what he’s already doing. He doesn’t need to be distracted by any risk to…anyone at home.”

Benny nodded. He knew what they were both thinking. John did have someone at home, someone he loved. The last few times someone he loved had been in danger, he’d gone completely off the rails. There wasn’t time for that now. They needed him to catch Wheeler.

“We’re going to be short on men,” Schenk said. “Take your computer and go to Luther’s. Guard the place and work on tracing the IP of whoever hacked us at the same time. That IP will lead us to the hostage. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

 

When the door to John’s flat opened, Benny had to take a moment to check the number on the door and make sure he hadn’t gotten the wrong one.

The person who’d opened it was a relatively small older man with disheveled dark hair. He had wire-rimmed glasses on and was holding a book, clearly having been interrupted in the act of reading. He blinked at Benny curiously with pale eyes.

“Er, is this the residence of DCI John Luther?” Benny asked, just to make sure.

“It is, yes. Who’re you?” The man paused. “No, no, I know your face. You work with John.” Suddenly his eyes widened as he realized the ramifications of what he’d just said. “…You work with John. Has something happened to him?”

“No, no, he’s fine,” Benny said hastily, though of course he couldn’t actually be sure of that. John was in pursuit of a potential killer as they spoke, and to make matters worse he hadn’t been picking up his phone. “I’m Ben Silver. I’m here to…protect you.”

“Protect me? Protect me from what? …Did John send you?”

“No, officers have been sent to the residences of everyone in our section. A dangerous man has, er, managed to breach our information. I can’t guarantee your safety here. I can stay with you, but it might be best if you return to your own residence until said man has been apprehended.”

Benny trailed off, looking at the man. He knew his face, too. Recognized it from somewhere. From a tape he’d watched a thousand times, trying to figure out the identities of a gang of teenage girls who’d kicked the living daylights out of an older man. From law websites and social media accounts he’d deep-dived upon John’s request, when the detective chief inspector had wanted to learn everything there was to know about the man his wife had left him for, when he’d been desperate for Benny to find some clue or logic or reason she could love this man more than him.

The scruff was gone, the hair was different, he was older and more haggard, but this was unmistakably the same man.

“…You’re Mark North.”

The man nodded. “Yes, yes, that’s me. And you had better come in, seeing as I don’t have another home to go to.” He leaned back from the doorway. “This is my home. I live here.”

Benny walked inside, still not quite able to put two and two together just yet. “You live here? With Luther?”

“That’s right. How about a cup of tea and you explain to me exactly what’s going on?”

Benny nodded vaguely and sat down at the kitchen table. Mark North. When he had first shared the information he’d found on Mark with John, John had come up with many choice descriptors for this man who was currently putting the kettle on in front of him.  Benny couldn’t remember them all, but “boring old sod”, “trustafarian hippy rubbish”, and “skinny white git who can’t even grow a proper beard” had certainly been among them.  Suffice to say, John Luther had not liked Mark North, and who could blame him? He was John’s wife’s boyfriend at the time, after all.

Benny knew there was more to the story, though. He recalled that Mark had been there on the day that Ian Reed had been killed, alongside John and Alice Morgan. He’d been questioned in regard to the murder himself. There had apparently been some kind of companionship forged between the two in the wake of their mutual lover’s death, but Benny hadn’t thought much of it. He couldn’t recall John so much as uttering Mark’s name in the office more than once or twice in the past five years.

No, that wasn’t true- there had been that incident recently, a few weeks ago. John hadn’t gotten a call that a friend was in hospital. That had been Mark, hadn’t it? So they were still mates. But nonetheless, why was Mark here? Was this something else John had gotten himself wrapped up in? Or was Mark the one involved in something and John had taken him in, another stray John was keeping under witness protection?

Finally, Benny decided the best thing to do was ask. “Why’re you here, then?”

Mark looked over at him from the kettle. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, what brings you to DCI Luther’s humble abode?”

There was another pause, then, “I was injured. I live alone, and John was worried I wouldn’t be able to look after myself. He let me stay here.”

“Bloody kind of him,” Benny said as he booted up his computer.

“It was.”

“You’re still doing poorly, then?”

“Almost entirely healed, actually. I’ll be going back to work next week,” Mark said.

“You’re still here, though?”

“I have no intentions of leaving. In the beginning I was only here because John wanted to be my carer, but…it’s not about that anymore. We’ll be moving soon, but…I’ll be staying with John.”

Something finally clicked in Benny’s head- the phone calls John had been taking, they must have been from Mark. Mark was who was staying at his flat, after all.

_It was my mate on the phone. You’re barking up the wrong tree._

Maybe John had actually been telling the truth when he’d said that. But no, giving it a moment’s more thought, Benny had to laugh at the mere idea of that being the case. The way John had spoken on the phone was not the way one talked to one’s mate. Whoever had been on the other end of those calls, John was in love with them.

If Mark North had been on the other end of those calls, that meant John was in love with him.

Benny practically dropped his tea at the realization.

“Are you all right?” Mark asked him.

“Er, yeah, I’m fine. You and the boss, you’re together, then?”

Mark sipped his tea, which was wrapped in both his hands, and shrugged. “You could say so. I don’t know of any other way to describe it.”

It wasn’t the strangest thing Benny had heard, admittedly. He’d never pinned John as the kind of man who’d go for other men, but it wasn’t as though it was ever an impossibility.

It was more that it would be this man in particular, out of all of them. John’s own wife’s lover. The man he’d spent so many weeks despising and insulting. He wasn’t exactly the most interesting bloke around either, was he? He was far from bad-looking: there was a rugged and severe handsomeness about him, an air of the Bohemian. But he was also rather small, quiet, and unimposing. Compared to someone as physically large and with such a large personality as John, Mark appeared positively tiny. Near offensively ordinary.

Benny mentally berated himself for wondering what their sex life might be like.

“What’s all this, then?” Mark asked, nodding at Benny’s computer and equipment.

“The man we’re looking for hacked into the police system,” Benny responded, wrenching himself out of his reverie. “I’m hoping that he left a trail clear enough that I can trace it back to him. Give John a hand.”

“…John’s going after him right now,” Mark said.

Benny looked over at him, and for the first time he felt he could surmise some notion of why John might want to be with a person so seemingly standard-issue as this man. A look had appeared in his eyes the moment he’d heard that John was potentially in danger- a hardness. A drive. A look that made Benny realize he was going to have to keep an eye on this one.

“John’s handled more difficult cases than this one,” he said.

“I know,” Mark said simply, but the hardness remained.

As Benny typed away on his computer, he explained what was going on in more detail to Mark. Not too much detail, though. He had to remind himself that despite his job as a lawyer and his relationship with John, Mark was still a civilian, and not privy to police information. Afterwards, they sat in silence. Mark pulled out his book again and kept reading while sipping his tea, but Benny could see how strained he was. He hadn’t relaxed one inch.

Benny’s phone buzzed and he picked it up, eyes still fixed on his screen. “Boss?”

“Any joy?” Schenk asked.

“Not yet. I’m gaining ground, though.”

“Well, I recommend you gain ground faster. Wheeler just issued an ultimatum. Says if we don’t get him the money by the end of the hour, he’ll kill one of our loved ones. No indication which, but he very likely has eyes on a particular target already.”

“Have all the families been warned? Officers posted?”

“Yes, there’s at least one officer at each address, but…that’s only one officer. He could easily overpower them, especially if he’s expecting them.”

This was true. Benny didn’t trust himself to be able to take on Wheeler, either. He’d been trained in combat, of course, but everyone knew computers were his gig. He was in no position to be the last line of defense, and he hoped beyond hope that Wheeler didn’t have his eyes set on Mark North.

“We can’t rely on DCI Luther to miraculously solve our problems,” Schenk said. “Find that IP, Benny.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Schenk hung up then, and Benny continued working away. He could tell Mark wanted to ask who’d been on the phone and what they’d said, but was holding it in because he didn’t want to interrupt Benny. The tension in the room was tangible.

“He’s coming, isn’t he? This man, this…murderer?” Mark said finally.

Benny nodded. “Not necessarily for you. Could be anyone.”

“And John?”

“…No word yet. He’s still in pursuit.”

Mark was staring at his book, but Benny could see his eyes weren’t moving. After a minute he apparently gave up on reading it and went to the kitchen. Benny had noticed there was food and supplies out on the counter. Mark must have been making a meal before he’d arrived- his and John’s supper, not knowing that John was wrapped up in a case and wouldn’t be home to eat it. Benny couldn’t really imagine being with John Luther, when he thought about it. The idea of loving someone so devoted to his work, so unreliable, who was always in such dangerous situations- it was unfathomable to him, and yet Zoe had managed it for twenty years. And now her own lover was managing it.

Not well, though, Benny mused. When he shot another glance at Mark, the man was cutting the vegetables on the counter, but his expression was blank and his hands were shaking slightly as he held the knife.

Another couple of minutes passed in tense silence, before Mark said in a voice strung tighter than piano wire, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…Mr. Silver?”

“Ah, you can call me Benny.”

“Benny. Yes. Do you reckon you could…call John?” Mark asked. “I know that he likely won’t answer, that he’s in the middle of a pursuit, but…just to see how he’s doing. Tell him…the new information.”

He wanted to make sure John was still alive. Benny could hardly blame him. “You’re welcome to do it yourself,” he said.

Mark shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’d have to be you. Or I’d have to use your phone. He won’t pick up if he’s in trouble and sees me calling. He won’t want me to know.”

Benny let out a breath. “…All right. Time to break this boy out, then.”

He pulled out his headset, the one that served for both his work and his gaming escapades, and connected it to his phone. If he used it, he could make any calls he needed without having to take his hands off the keyboard.

He instructed his phone to call John Luther, and it did. Neither he nor Mark breathed until, rather to his surprise, John picked up. Benny lowered the headphones to around his neck so Mark could hear him speak, too.

“Ben. Tell me you’ve found Jamie,” John said.

“Not yet, boss. Do you have eyes on Wheeler?”

“Following him by car as we speak. He’s slowing down now, reckon he’s stopping on North Broad.”

“…North Broad?” Benny said.

“Motley Flats. Ds Collins lives there. She’s at the station, but she has a husband and child. They’re probably home. They’re his next targets,” John said. “…Oh, fucking hell.”

“What? What’s happened?”

“He’s seen me. He’s getting out.”

“Are you armed?”

“You know I’m not. He is, though.” The sound of a gunshot rang through the air. “Fuck. Fuck, he just shot the officer who was posted at the building- I’ll have to call you back, Benny-”

With that the call clicked to an end. Benny was silent for a moment, stunned. It was Mark who spoke up first.

“North Broad,” he said quietly. “Motley. That’s…that’s just the next street on. Barely a block away.”

Benny nodded numbly.

“John is there alone. Unarmed,” Mark said. “He’ll be killed. He’ll be fucking killed.”

The fear striking Benny’s own heart was audible in Mark’s voice. He couldn’t falter now, though. He was a police sergeant. It was his job to protect others.

He called Schenk as quickly as he could. “Boss, Luther’s on North Broad, outside the Motley block of flats. Wheeler is there.”

“Right,” Schenk said levelly. “Who’s the officer posted there?”

“Donno, but they’re likely out of commission. Wheeler shot them.”

“Next closest?”

“That would be…me, sir.”

Schenk swore. “All right.”

Benny heard him turn away from the phone and bark orders at another officer.

“Boss, should I go there?” he asked, out of obligation more than actual desire. They both knew that he’d be useless in a gunfight.

“No, no. I need you finding Jamie. Besides, you’re unarmed, and there’s only one of you. There’s no use in throwing another unarmed officer in the mix. Stay put, and keep John’s flat secured. Armed personnel are on their way.”

“Great. Okay,” Benny said, and the call ended.

Mark had gone white as a sheet, his pale blue eyes wide and staring. At the moment, he reminded Benny of an animal that had been spooked.

“’Armed personnel are on their way’,” Mark repeated Schenk’s words weakly. “They’re miles away. That building is just a block down. We could get there faster on bloody foot.”

“You heard what the DSU said. I’m staying put,” Benny said.

“John is out there alone- he’ll die! Don’t you care?!”

“Of course I care!” Benny said, angry now. “John’s my friend too, you know. I’ve known him longer than you have. But what good is us getting killed too? Now sit down and stay put! You’re not leaving this flat!”

John had always told him that if he spent a long enough time on the force, he might finally get the hard-arse, stern, order-giving thing down. Benny had never quite believed him, but right now was probably the closest he’d come. He’d surprised himself with how harsh his tone had been.

Mark seemed to get the message though, and collapsed back into his chair. He was still pale and shaky, his hands pressed together and against his lips as if he were praying. The man looked on the verge of a breakdown.

Benny wished he could comfort him, but how could he? By promising that John would be fine? He couldn’t do that. No one could ever promise that. Besides, he had a job to do. He’d been able to trace the IP that had hacked into their systems to a particular borough, and with a bit more digging he was positive he could get the exact location.

He instructed his phone to call Schenk again, leaning closer and closer to his computer screen until he was practically touching it as he furiously input commands.

“You have the hostage’s location?” the DSU asked, jumping straight to the point.

“I will have in about thirty seconds. Have officers ready to go.”

“Already do, and I’m on the way to North Broad myself.”

“All right,” Benny said. “I’m zeroing in on a location…Yes! Yes, I’ve got it!”

He relayed the address to Schenk, who passed it on to the other officers, and then he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “Fuck,” he said aloud. At least now, even if something happened to John, they could save Jamie- and if Wheeler tried to return to his base of operations, they’d be there waiting for him.

He was torn from his moment of relief by the sound of a door banging shut.

It was the front door of the flat.

Mark North was gone.

“Fuck,” he said again, louder. He’d been too caught up in the call, his headset obstructing his hearing. He hadn’t even noticed the man move.

His eyes slid to the counter where Mark had been cutting vegetables. The knife was conspicuously missing from the cutting board. “Fuck!”

“DS Silver?” Schenk’s voice came through the headset. “Is something wrong?”

He’d completely forgotten that he was even still on the call. He stammered, trying to come up with a response. Benny was a lot of things, but one thing he wasn’t was quick on his feet. There was no way he’d catch Mark now, not with the head start he’d gotten. Running after him would be useless, and he’d been ordered to hold his post anyway.

“Er, there may be another civilian in danger at the Motley building. Or, there will be…very soon. What’s your ETA?”

“Five minutes. We were diverted by a collision on Main.”

“Okay.”

Five minutes. Mark could get to the building in less than that if he was running, which he surely would be. Benny cursed himself for letting the man out of his sight, especially since he’d observed how agitated he had been. He should have known the man would leave. There was nothing for him to do now other than hope, however, just like he was hoping for John’s safety.

He leaned over and rested his forehead on the table, his heart racing. He was thoroughly surprised when he found himself smiling. Despite the stress and the horror of the situation, he could understand now what John saw in Mark. The two of them were the same, really. Benny didn’t know many people who’d be willing to go alone to face off with a known murderer without so much as a gun, but both John Luther and Mark North were such people, apparently.

He just needed them to both make it out alive.


	6. Chapter 6

It wasn’t the first time John had ever been shot. It had to be the third or fourth. That didn’t make it hurt any less, of course. It was still taking all his strength to remain upright, to not collapse onto the pavement clutching his arm.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard!” Wheeler was screaming, spit flying from his mouth, his long matted hair going in all directions. “You should have just given me the money! Why didn’t you give me the money?! Now I have to kill you!”

“You won’t though, will you?” John said through gritted teeth. “I know you won’t. You don’t have the mettle.”

“I’ve done it before!”

“No you haven’t. I know that was an accident, August. You never meant to hurt her, all those years ago. It was an accident, and you staged it to look like a murder because it made you feel like more of a man. Isn’t that right? You’re not going to kill me, and you were never going to kill Jamie.”

When August Wheeler’s wild eyes met his, he realized he’d made a miscalculation. He’d known that in his right mind, Wheeler _didn’t_ want to kill anyone. He wasn’t in his right mind now, though. He was blinded by rage and fear.

A simple miscalculation, but one John realized was now going to cost him his life.

Wheeler raised the gun to aim straight at John’s chest. His hands were shaking, but his gaze was steady. He wasn’t going to miss. In another universe, on another day when John hadn’t been shot in the arm, he might have hoped to dodge. Or to lunge at Wheeler and take him off guard. Overpower him. Not today, though. Today John was barely able to stand upright. He wasn’t getting out of this one.

He closed his eyes. He’d considered killing himself dozens of times. Death was no stranger to him, and not something he particularly feared. If he’d been able to choose, he wouldn’t have chosen to die like this, but one could rarely ever choose. At least other officers were on their way. Maybe he’d bought enough time that they’d show up before Wheeler could make a break for it.

His eyes were closed, ready, but the shot never came.

Instead, Wheeler let out a howl of rage and pain.

John’s eyes shot back open, and for a moment he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Wheeler’s face was contorted, and there was a red stain spreading across the side of his white button-down shirt. Had the officers arrived? Had he been shot? John hadn’t heard a gunshot.

Then he saw that another figure was standing behind Wheeler. A figure who, when the light of the street lamp hit his face, was very familiar indeed.

Mark stepped back from Wheeler, the knife he’d just stabbed him with shakily slipping from his hands, before grabbing him from behind and reaching for the gun. Wheeler was screaming, enraged.

“Who the fuck are you?! What the fuck are you doing?! I’ll fucking kill you!”

The two were trapped in a deadlock, wrestling over the gun. Mark was considerably smaller than Wheeler, but also faster and not currently in immense pain. He stayed at Wheeler’s back, preventing him from aiming at him. Wheeler managed to hit him upside the head with the gun’s barrel, but Mark refused to let go of him, even as blood trickled down his scalp.

“Mark!” John shouted, terror piercing through his heart. He’d accepted it when he’d thought he himself might die, but he couldn’t accept Mark dying. Mark wasn’t even supposed to be here. What the hell was he doing here?!

 

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

Mark couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear, could barely see. The only thought that stayed consistent in his mind was, _Don’t let go. Don’t let him have the gun. Don’t let him hurt John._

Wheeler was spinning wildly now, kicking and elbowing at Mark. It hurt like hell, but that didn’t matter. He dug his hand into the wound he’d made in Wheeler’s side in retaliation. Wheeler screamed in pain, but only redoubled his efforts to keep a hold on the gun. He started aiming wildly, shooting the gun in all directions, until-

John didn’t yell when the bullet tore into his stomach. He only let out a strangled, choked sound before slowly falling to his knees.

_“No!”_

Fear and rage giving him strength, Mark finally ripped the gun out of Wheeler’s hands. He whipped him across the face with it and the man collapsed, clutching his nose and howling. Without thinking, Mark aimed the gun at him and pulled the trigger, but the barrel was empty. Wheeler was stumbling to his feet. He was strong- too strong- and Mark knew his own stamina was running out. He could feel the stitches on his torso ripping.

His brain was filled with haze and his hands were covered in blood, mostly Wheeler’s but some his own, and all he could think was that John was lying unmoving on his back his back two metres away and that he might be dead and that _it was Wheeler’s fault._

Something glinted on the concrete. The kitchen knife was lying next to him. The knife he’d been using to cut vegetables for their supper just twenty minutes ago.

A flash of a memory crossed his mind. A memory of Ian Reed, taunting him, calling the woman he’d loved a whore, the woman he’d loved who Ian had killed. He’d told Alice to kill him then. He’d been so full of rage that no other option had even seemed viable.

 _Do it,_ he’d told her, and he’d never regretted it since.

The only difference now was that the person he was telling to do it was himself.

_He hurt John. He might have killed John. The man you love is bleeding out beside you because this man shot him. Do it. Do it. Do it._

Mark picked up the knife, still slippery with blood, and lunged at Wheeler. He shoved it deep, deep into the man’s stomach, all the way to the other side.

The time it took Wheeler to fall couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. He slumped against the pavement, but Mark could see he was still alive. Those disgusting, bloodshot eyes were still open. It didn’t matter, though. After a moment they glazed over, and he knew Wheeler was gone.

Mark stood there, hunched over his corpse for a moment, just breathing, until his eyes slipped back over to John.

He stumbled to his feet and to John’s side. There was blood. So much blood, everywhere. On Mark, on John, on the concrete. John wasn’t moving. Mark couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

“No. No, John, please,” Mark whispered desperately. “You’ve survived so much. You can survive this. Please, John. You can’t leave me. I can’t lose you too _. Please.”_

 

When they arrived at the Motley building, it was quiet.

Schenk didn’t like quiet. Over the many years he’d spent as a police officer, he’d grown to know better than to trust it. Quiet wasn’t always good, and it especially wasn’t when you were arriving at a scene where the criminal you were chasing was supposed to be.

He and a dozen other officers parked in the street and streamed out of their cars. One ran over to a figure lying on the steps of the building.

“Officer Cotnoir. He’s dead,” they reported.

Schenk swore under his breath. Cotnoir had been posted to guard one of the officers’ flats. He’d been new to the job; this was only his second month in the field. He was young. He didn’t deserve this. Then again, no one did.

In the dim light of a nearby street lamp, he caught sight of another figure, kneeling. He beckoned an armed officer to accompany him and walked over.

“Put your hands in the air!” the officer shouted at the figure.

Wide blue eyes looked up at them, eyes belonging to a man who wasn’t Wheeler, and who was covered in blood and shaking all over. A man Schenk swore he recognized.

The man didn’t appear to have heard the command. He just stared at Schenk and said, “John. You have to save John.”

Only then did Schenk realize what the familiar man was crouching over. It was the prone body of John Luther, who was bloody and didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Officer down!” Schenk shouted. “Get a stretcher over here! Right now!” He turned back to the man. “What happened? How did this happen?”

“Wheeler,” the man replied feebly. “Shot him. Twice, I think. Arm and stomach.”

“And Wheeler?”

“Another body, over here!” an officer called, indicating a crumpled form lying in the shadows outside the reach of the street light.

“That’s him,” the man said. “He’s dead. But he shot John. John...John’s dying.”

“We’ll get DCI Luther to hospital as quick as we can,” Schenk reassured him.

Even as he said it, the paramedics were running onto the scene. The man had to move aside as they picked John up and heaved him onto a stretcher. One of them tried to get him put on a stretcher too, but he stood up and backed away.

“No, no, I’m hardly hurt,” he stammered. “It’s not my blood. It’s…it’s not my blood.”

He allowed them to throw a shock blanket over him and lead him to the ambulance in the end, however. Schenk watched the doors of the ambulances close and take John, Wheeler, Cotnoir and the oh-so-familiar man away.

A call came over the radio: they’d reached the house where Wheeler had been keeping his hostage. Jamie Davies had been recovered alive and unharmed.

“Good to finally get some good news today,” Schenk muttered to himself. He pulled out his phone and called Benny, because it felt like the right thing to do. Benny was the one who’d found Jamie’s location after all, and he’d sounded so terrified the last time they’d spoken. He deserved to hear the news- both good and bad.

Benny picked up immediately. “Boss. Is Luther all right?”

“He’s been taken to hospital. Severely injured, but alive.”

He heard Benny take a shaky breath before saying, “All right. And Mark?”

“Mark?” Schenk repeated, then frowned. Mark. Mark. A memory rose to the front of his mind of a dark-haired man with a long face and blue eyes, dressed up in a scarf and tweed, sitting across from him at an interrogation table some eight years ago.

“Mark North,” Benny said. “I was meant to be looking after him, but he slipped out without me seeing- I know he was headed to Motley. I’m sorry. If anything’s happened to him, it was my fault.”

Yes, Mark North. It had been hard to recognize him so many years later, especially in the dark when he was covered in blood and in a state of shock. But why? Why was _he_ here?

Now wasn’t the time to get the answer that question, however. Instead, Schenk said, “He seemed to be all right. Minor injuries.”

“Good.” Benny sounded incredibly relieved.

“Wheeler’s dead.”

“…John got him? Or one of the officers?”

“Not sure. He was dead when we arrived. I know John would always rather arrest than kill, but sometimes needs must,” Schenk said. “Be proud of yourself, DS Silver. You did good work today.”

“Thanks, boss. Just hope John’s all right.”

 

John stared at the bright lights above him, his head swimming. Memories were flitting around in his brain, but they were fractured. Incomplete. In his head he saw a gun, a knife, a mobile phone. A street light. A car. All disjointed, offering no explanation.

The strongest, most recent memory, however, was that of Mark kneeling over him. Mark was kneeling over him, and there was pure terror in the man’s eyes, and there was so much blood.

A figure was leaning over him now, too, peering down at him. “John? Are you awake?”

“Mark,” John mumbled. “Mark!”

“Sorry, no. It’s just me.”

John’s eyes cleared, and for the first time he realized where he was. He was in a bed in what appeared to be a hospital room. He was in a gown, and there were IVs hooked up to his right arm. His left arm and torso stung with pain. The man leaning over him was, indeed, not Mark at all. It was Benny.

“Ben…” he rasped.

“That’s right,” Benny said encouragingly. “It’s Benny.”

“Benny, what happened? Where- where’s Wheeler? Where’s Mark?”

Benny sat down in the chair next to John’s bed, looking uncomfortable. “Wheeler’s dead.”

John nodded, relieved. So the response had gotten there in time, before the kidnapper could escape. “And Mark? Mark North, he was there. Is he all right?”

Benny hesitated, averting his eyes. “I donno that this is the best conversation to be having, in your current state-”

John sat up immediately, even though doing so shot his entire body through with agony. “Benny, I’ll put _you_ in a state if you don’t tell me how Mark is right now.”

“Well, that’s, er, related to how Wheeler’s doing.”

“What?”

“Mark North is in prison.”

John stared at him. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“He killed Wheeler, John,” Benny said. “Stabbed him. He’ll get out, of course. There’s no way he won’t get out once he faces trial. It was clearly self-defense. Justifiable homicide.”

John collapsed back onto his bed, feeling dazed. “That…idiot. What the hell was he thinking?!”

“He was saving you, Boss.”

“Exactly. He should’ve left well enough alone…I’m not…”

“The armed response was delayed. If not for him, Wheeler would’ve killed you and walked free. London is safer today because of Mark North.”

“Yeah, but will a jury believe that? They haven’t before.”

Too many thoughts were going around and around in John’s head. Thoughts of how he could testify for Mark in court, how he could help him. How he could break him out if he did get convicted. How he could pay the man he loved back for saving his life.

“He’s going to be all right,” Benny said.

John nodded. “He will be.”

Because John wasn’t going to allow for the alternative, no matter what it took.

 

 

Visiting the prison felt wrong.

John had visited dozens of prisons dozens of times, but that had been when he was going to speak to criminals. Mark North wasn’t a criminal, and never had been.

It was all wrong. The fact that Mark was being to led to his table by guard, the fact that he was in handcuffs, the fact that he was dressed in a washed out gray jumpsuit that was too big for him- all of it was wrong.

He looked different, too. Paler, gaunter. There were deeper shadows under his eyes, and stitches on his forehead from being hit with Wheeler’s gun. He looked haunted, and John could understand why. Giving in to that anger, the desire to kill someone - it changed you and everything around you. You wanted to be like you were, but you couldn’t, because that person was gone. That was how John had lost Zoe in the first place. He wasn’t going to abandon Mark, though. He knew the feeling, the guilt, all too well. He knew how much support Mark would need.

When Mark sat down and greeted him, however, a light immediately reappeared in his eyes.

“John,” he said, and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, though I had rather it not be in here.”

“You look…well. Better than I expected.”

“Couple of bullets can’t stop me,” John said, shooting him a one-sided grin. “It’ll be another month or two in his thing.” He gestured at his wheelchair. “Longer before I’ll be ready to go back to the job. If I ever do.”

“I wish I could believe that you could give it up this time, but you never can, can you?”

John chuckled. “Maybe not. And you? How’s life behind bars treating you? No trouble with your roommates?”

Mark shook his head. “The whole ordeal was televised. Everyone knew about the little boy who was kidnapped. They all saw his parents’ appeals to Wheeler on the telly…” He laughed derisively. “Folks have been congratulating me, mostly. Acting like I saved the kid. As if I’m some kind of hero.”

“You are a hero.”

“I didn’t save Jamie. Benny did, and your officers. I wasn’t thinking of him at all; I was only thinking about saving you.”

“And you succeeded,” John pointed out.

“…Yeah.”

His expression was still dark, and John knew now was the time to say what he’d been wanting to say since he’d woken up and found out what had happened with Wheeler. “Mark, look. You can’t blame yourself for this. Wheeler made his choices, and he had to pay for him. If you hadn’t done it, one of the officers would have as soon as they showed up on the scene. I don’t want this to haunt you like it haunted me. You made the right decision.”

Mark frowned at him. “I know.”

John was taken aback. “…You do?”

“I don’t regret what I did, John. I haven’t once since it happened.”

“You looked…guilty. Apologetic.”

“I am. But I don’t regret that I killed Wheeler; I regret that I didn’t kill him sooner,” Mark said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Before you could be hurt, or that other officer. I’ve been worried my entire time here, but not about myself. Wheeler did what he did, and I did what I did. If I do end up spending my life here as a result of that, then so be it. I’ve been worried about _you._ You were shot twice, the second time purely due to my own incompetence. If I had only stabbed him in the right place the first time-”

John grabbed his hands. “Stop. Mark, stop. I would have been dead if not for you. You did enough. You did more than enough. And you’re not going to spend the rest of your life here. You’re not even going to have to spend a month here, after your trial. The whole country is behind you. The entirety of the London Police. I’m behind you. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

They both leaned across the narrow table towards each other until their foreheads were touching, their eyes closed.

“Thank you,” John said. “For saving my life.”

“You looked after me when I was hurt. This is just me paying you back. Looking after you, in return.”

They stayed like that for a long moment before the guard barked, “Break it up, you two!”

They sat back, both laughing.

“Time’s about up,” Mark said regretfully.

“Yeah. I’ll see you again, though.”

“You had better.”

John rolled away from the table as Mark stood up. Mark leaned down and John kissed him, lightly and quickly before the guard could complain.

The guard grabbed Mark roughly as he led him to the door of the visitation room, but when Mark looked back at John, he was smiling, and the shadow over his face had lightened significantly.

 

“What Mark North did, he did to save my life. There was no alternative. The police had already been called to the location, and they weren’t going to make it in time. If he hadn’t done what he’d done when he did it, I would have died. August Wheeler would have escaped. Another child, just like little Jamie, could be in danger right now. This man doesn’t deserve to go to prison, he deserves to be lauded. I think we all know that.”

John smiled as he rolled down from the witness stand. He’d seen the looks on the jury’s faces as he’d spoken. There was no way they weren’t on Mark’s side. How could they not be, when an injured police officer had just told them the story of how the man had heroically rescued him? He may have embellished a bit during his account, but there wasn’t really much to embellish. He _would_ have died if not for Mark. Wheeler _would_ be free to continue terrorizing the city of London.

John took his place next to the end of the aisle. Mark shot him a smile, and he smiled back. He knew Mark’s lawyer was smiling internally too, though she kept her face a mask of professionalism.

Even with both of them pooling their money together, he and Mark had had barely enough to afford a good lawyer. The fortunate thing about Mark being a prosecutor himself, however, was that it meant every lawyer in the UK now saw him as their colleague. Their ally. They’d lined up to offer their services at a reduced rate. In the end, the lawyer they’d chosen was one Mark had heard of and trusted, and who was experienced with representing defendants who’d committed assault or homicide in self-defense.

She’d assured them that everything would go smoothly, and it did. After the trial, it only took an hour for the jury to deliberate before ruling Mark not guilty of first-degree homicide. Only a few days later, the judge upheld the ruling, on the precedent that it was a clear case of non-criminal homicide done in defense of another person for which there had been an immediate threat to life and no other viable alternative to alleviate that threat.

Mark was freed that afternoon, and it was as though it had never happened.

That wasn’t true, of course. He’d still spent months in prison, months he could never get back. Months that John knew had been difficult, despite the face Mark put on when they’d met or the carefree tone he used when they’d spoken over the phone. And as much as Mark said he didn’t regret what he’d done, John knew there were certain memories one just couldn’t get rid of, and being covered in someone else’s blood was one of them.

Schenk and several other officers insisted on coming with John when he picked Mark up from the prison, to show their support and gratitude for his interception. John had to hide his displeasure at this. A large part of him had wanted his first interaction with Mark as a completely free man again, with no guards staring over their shoulders, to be more personal. Private. Just the two of them, like it had been over so many years and so many chess matches.

In the end, it was actually his fellow officers who got to greet Mark first as he stepped out into the chilly night air.

Schenk shook his hand. “Mr. North. Without you, I would’ve lost the finest detective on my team- and a dear friend. I can’t repay you.”

“You don’t have to,” Mark said. “I acted entirely selfishly, I assure you. He’s a dear friend of mine too, after all.”

The younger officers gathered around, asking questions about what had happened and reassuring him of Wheeler’s complete depravity, until Schenk finally waved them away.

“Give the man some space,” the DSU said, exasperated. “He’s had enough of being surrounded by strangers for a lifetime. Besides, I reckon there’s someone he’d rather talk to.”

The officers backed away as John wheeled up to Mark.

“Evenin’,” John said.

“Evening,” Mark said, grinning.

John braced himself on the arms of his wheelchair and got to his feet. “Look at you. Happy to be outside those walls?”

“Like you can’t imagine.”

John had never been particularly opposed to public displays of affection, but he’d never been particularly inclined towards them either, and especially not in front of colleagues from work.

Right now, though, he wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking anything except that he wanted to kiss Mark, so he grabbed him by the collar, pulled him gently towards him, and did so. It was a long kiss, and hard, to make up for all the times they’d been prevented from such contact by the prison guards.

When they broke apart, John glanced back to find the eyes of all the officers were on them. Most of them were open mouthed in shock, having been completely unaware of the nature of his relationship with Mark. Schenk was smiling though, and simply nodded at him. Benny must have told him that Mark was at John’s flat while John was chasing down Wheeler, and the rest didn’t take an intuitive genius to reason out.

“So,” Mark said, bringing John’s attention back to him. “Now what?”

“Now we need to go home and get packing,” John replied. “I found the perfect place next to a weed farm in the East End, I think you’ll like it…”

Mark burst into laughter. It was the most genuine laugh John had ever heard out of his mouth, filled with a hundred different emotions: relief, and joy, and gratitude, and love. John thought he could’ve lived a whole other lifetime sustained by that laugh alone.

Neither of them stopped smiling for the entirety of the drive back to the flat.

“I always thought…” John pondered allowed as he navigated the quiet streets, “…I always thought I was so lucky. Zoe and I weren’t on the same postgrad track. I did English; she did law, obviously. But we were both in the same elective course on comparative religion, and she happened to sit next to me.”

“I know,” Mark said warmly.

John looked at him, startled. “Really?”

“She told me that story the first time we went out for lunch.”

“She didn’t.”

“She did. She talked about you constantly, you know.”

John chuckled. “Sorry.”

“It irritated me to no end at the time, but I understand it now. You’re a pretty unforgettable bloke,” Mark said. “So. Comparative religion?”

“Yeah. We never would’ve met otherwise. I thought I was so lucky, and I was. Lucky to have met her, and to have known her. Not just ‘cause I loved her, though. Now I realize I was lucky for a whole other reason too, ‘cause if I’d never met her, I’d have never met you.”

Mark shook his head slightly. “Zoe and I only met because I was appointed her liaison on a case. It wasn’t the type of case I even took, normally, I just did it on a whim…all of it, a whim.” His eyes drifted across the blur of the city lights passing by them. “I still miss her.”

“Every day, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What d’you reckon she’d think of all this?” John asked.

“Of all what? Me stabbing a bloke to save your life, or the two of us together?”

“All of it.”

“I bet she’d be happy. No, I know she’d be happy.”

All of a sudden, Mark started laughed again and didn’t stop until a bemused John asked, “What?!”

Mark wiped his eyes. “I just remembered something. She told me…must have been a week before she died, she told me she had a dream that you and I had sex. I remember that morning. She told me it was the best dream she’d ever had, and that things would be a lot simpler if we could get along like that.”

John was laughing now too. “She was right.”

“She always was. Like you said.”

The streets of London were as dark as they’d ever been. Any moment another Wheeler or Graves could appear, another horror to overcome. They both knew that day would arrive; they’d been through enough to know it was never over. For the time being, however, they were safe. They were together.

They were free.


End file.
